Spring Cleaning With the Volturi
by thesunshinekid
Summary: For those who loved Spring Cleaning With the Cullens.  What ancient treasures will the Volturi unearth on Spring Cleaning day?


**Author's Note: For those who loved "Spring Cleaning with the Cullens," I bring you the promised "Spring Cleaning with the Volturi." ****This is a one-shot, written in ****Aro's**** point of view.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight, or any of its respective characters.**

Spring Cleaning With the Volturi

[Aro's P.O.V.

_April 21__st__, 2007. _

I hung up the phone and stared at the wall. Carlisle Cullen had given me another update on the Bella-girl. He'd refused to tell me what she was able to do – only that his son was a lot less suicidal nowadays. The man had grown up in London – he was street smart, to be sure. I once again considered sending a guard member out to investigate the situation, but quickly rejected the idea. I would trust Carlisle; of all the men I'd met, over all of the centuries I'd lived, Carlisle Cullen was the most well-intentioned. Even if he was lying.

The only tangible information I'd received was an account of the family's annual "Spring Cleaning Day."

When I'd first heard of the event, five years ago, I scoffed aloud. Vampires had better things to do than worry ourselves with some ridiculous human tradition. Spring cleaning? As if there were messes in our lives to be ashamed of. The Volturi could not be troubled with such petty wastes of time.

Recently, however, even the guard had been grumbling. I could hear, with my impeccable ears, the undercurrent of insubordination. This threatening boredom needed to be contained.

Maybe Carlisle Cullen was onto something.

OOOOOOOOO

_April 30__th__, 2007_

"What about this gift from Julius Caesar?" Demitri asked, pointing to a rather large, moth-destroyed tapestry adorning the corridor wall. It had been a gift from the late Caesar, a symbol of the Volturi's cooperation during the reign of the talented Roman Emperor.

"Time are changing, my boy!" I called out jovially, indicating towards the growing pile of junk. "Caesar is dead. He will not be offended."

Spring Cleaning had been a wonderful idea. Even with our exceptional speed, it had taken days to sift through the millennia of artifacts we had accumulated. It could be the start of a tradition – every century, a few days dedicated to the purging of the old, and the welcoming of the new.

I watched my brother Caius converse with young Jane.

"Yes, the toothbrush is necessary." He insisted, handing her a bucket of bleach and water. "You're the only one small enough to fit into those corners, and we want this place sparkling."

Jane muttered something about Alec, who was perched near the roof, scrubbing furiously at the tiles. I could tell that they were glad for the occupation – it was not every day that we _Flipped T__his Underground Lair._

I made my way towards the library. I had spent a great deal of time here over the years – our collection was cavernous and complete. And corroding.

"This copy of _Candide _is crumbling." Felix held up the Voltaire to the light.

"We'll replace it." I nodded, adding it to the mental list. Thank goodness for our power and status and wealth of the ages. This endeavor might become expensive.

"The real Stone of Scone, sir?" Heidi asked from a corner.

"Keep it." I replied. That was some valuable leverage there.

"A handwritten Shakespeare manuscript, sir?" Felix required my attention again.

"Of what?" I inquired.

"A lost play, sir."

"Let it remain lost." I decided. He could take that as he would.

"The two-thousand-and-seven computers have arrived!" Giana called from her desk. She really wasn't the most productive of assistants, but I was unsettled on her fate as of yet. While still pondering, I found Marcus carrying boxes as I entered the lobby.

"We're removing the two-thousand-and-six computers as we speak." He explained, "The technology is out of date, and I see no reason that progress should leave us behind."

Even Marcus had decided to use some elbow grease! This truly was a brilliant, monumental decision.

A young member of the guard shuffled my way. "This is an entire Mozart Concerto, in his own print, but no one here plays piano."

I paused for a moment. Though priceless, it would be ridiculous to keep such a thing about.

"Have it sent to America, my boy," I instructed, "to Edward Cullen."

Let him know that there was no animosity between us. Let that be an appetizer – and incentive.

OOOOOOOOO

_May 1__st__, 20_

We were now clearing out our personal spaces. My office was hardly cluttered, but it was refreshing to give it a good clean.

I'd started on the filing cabinets. Nearly a thousand years of paperwork – forgeries and documents and the histories that I had collected. I would have one of the young ones computerize the data. Imagine the rainforests the Volturi would save with this amount of recycling! After all, we vampires should give back to the earth.

I snickered, and perused the paintings, now lined up on the floor. Da Vinci, Rafael, a recently acquired Picasso. Maybe they could be sold at auction? Should we build an art room? I was repainting this office – with nice, pure gold. I didn't want just anything adorning these walls.

Indecisive, I moved on to the closet. I had not used it in two hundred years – what had it's purpose once been? Despite my perfect memory, I struggled to recall.

I opened the door, only to be greeted with the stench of old robes. Well, they were going to have to go. We had replaced the robes a good twenty times since these were last worn. Into the pile they go.

A box full of comic books; this had been another one of Carlisle Cullen's brilliant ideas. Where did he get such an imagination? Why did the man hold so much sway over my own hobbies and activities? His ideas were eccentric, and we loved him for it, but these were ridiculous – into the recycling pile.

And what was this? Bone? Bone, layers of bone as far as the eye could see. I could not tell where the back of the closet was – only that I could not reach it.

Bone – full bodies, still attached. An anatomy professor's dream – and all in my closet.

Ah, the many "Giana's" of an earlier century, before we had perfected the disposal of the evidence. No wonder this closet was so deep.


End file.
